Charlemagne Saga, Book I: Gelida
by Lepidolite Mica
Summary: As time marches on, ghosts of a forgotten order rise to walk the world once more, bringing with them strange abilities far beyond nature. Boundaries are drawn, allies found, and enemies made, but not all as they once were. Rated T for some violence and blood, and possibly more "linguistically liberal" characters later in the story.
1. Ch 1: Saccharine Smile

_I see through her smile; she's as cold as ice._

_I'd stay away from the girl with the saccharine smile!_

In times past and tales of old, there was once an isle known as Sampetra. There dwelt a tyrant ruler, Emperor Ublaz Mad-Eyes, who sought after six pink pearls of great luster, the Tears Of All Oceans. But that is a story for another time, my friends. What matters for now is, after the...deposition, shall we say, of Emperor Ublaz, the Isle of Sampetra was left to ruin, its forests aflame and its remaining inhabitants left to fend for themselves against cannibalistic lizards and their own lust for dominance.

Now, several weeks later, as the war began to sway in favor of the rats, a great fleet appeared over the western horizon. With black sails flowing in the wind, each emblazoned with a different icy blue symbol, they cast the perfect image of intimidation. The top decks were full to almost overflowing with all manner of creatures; rats, weasels, and stoats, yes, but also squirrels, shrews, hedgehogs, and otters. At the bow of the lead ship, her body wreathed with steam and her spikes growing more icy spikes of their own, stood a hedgehog maid. Her attire spoke of her corsair heritage; indeed, she was none other than Gelida Frostmane, the Ice Queen!

As the ships drew closer, all fighting on the island slowly ceased, as rat and monitor alike turned their sights to the fleet. As the lead ship made contact with the beach, the hedgehog maid, who had by this point inched her way to the front of the massive, frosty figurehead, now jumped lightly, letting her previous momentum carry her off the bow entirely. With practically no visible effort, she landed on her feet. She strutted forward, a vibrant smile on her face, and breathed in deeply of the smoke-filled air. Letting out her breath with a sigh of somewhat misplaced contentment, she turned back to the ship and shouted, "Come on down, boys; we've found a home!" At once, the decks were alive with energy, as seabeasts and corsairs leapt out, onto the beach or into the water, and surged forward.

The previous residents had never seen anything like it: the fleet's crew must have numbered several thousand, of all species, and they all seemed incredibly eager to be here. Not one of the creatures who would normally be goodbeasts looked even the slightest bit unhappy to be part of the crew, though they were clearly pirates. As they set out across the island, several groups sang shanties and ballads, with none really bothering what any other group was singing. They spread out around the former war-wagers, gathering them together and leading them back to the beach.

"Well, well, what have we here? Former pirates, on my new island?" Gelida chuckled lightly, a melodious sound that made the heart flutter. "Tell me, who among you would like to be with a crew again?"

As the former searats began to realize what this meant, a cheer went up through their ranks. Gelida merely smiled and nodded. "That's what I thought. Well, if that is settled, then let me take a look at my new land." She turned and began to stroll inland, taking her time and looking around. As she passed a group of her crew, she paused, as if remembering something, and turned to speak to them. "Oh, and get rid of the monitors. They are of no use to me."

* * *

><p>Seasons passed, and Sampetra returned to its former, dubious glory. Several shipments of lumber were delivered overseas, allowing the isle to rebuild once more. A grand port town rose up around the western coastline, with shops trading in every good and service, illicit or not. Traders bartered stolen goods, slaves and carnal delights of every kind, and once more Sampetra was a pirate port.<p>

Yet all was not as it was before. The Ice Queen, whom time had neglected to age, had spread her frosty influence across the island, turning it from a lush tropical climate to one of ice and snow. This did little to dissuade pirates from porting at the island, but it did serve as a reminder of her cold, dangerous nature. From her palace of ice, and other building implements, I assure you, she ruled with a firm hand. Though her crews were inspired by her, and would not leave her service for the world, none dared cross her, for fear of becoming another statue in her great hall.

Of those, she did not have many. Two were monitors, frozen solid for Gelida's amusement in various poses of distress. After all, they hardly would have served her well, considering their cold-blooded nature. These stood on either side of the hall, within alcoves built for their display. Around their feet stood five more frosty cadavers: a rat, two squirrels, a weasel, and a mouse. For the most part, they bore expressions of abject horror, as one would expect from one so horribly executed.

The mouse, however, seemed almost triumphant in his expression, as though his icy immobility were nothing more than a slap on the wrist. Some unnerved guard had taken the liberty of turning him to face the wall, and Gelida was somewhat reluctant to turn him around again. Though she would never admit it, and, in fact, the frozen weasel was the one to have done it, she felt insecure whenever she saw the mouse's expression.

But he was frozen, and there was no way his mere expression could harm her. And so, though he unnerved her, she sat atop her throne, smugly satisfied with her power. And it came to pass that she heard of Redwall, and the glorious feasts held within. She waved her hand, beckoning somebeast from the shadows beside her throne. "Mako, come here."

A badger stepped forward, one with grey fur emblazoned with two white stripes. He was short for a badger, in that he only stood head and shoulders taller than her; indeed, he was shorter than most foxes and otters. "Mako," said Gelida, "it has been brought to my attention that there is a place, not far to the east, where creatures feast daily on the most wondrous of meals. Would you be a dear and, shall we say, 'retrieve' some of those cooks involved, that we may have such a feast here?"

The badger bowed deeply. "Yes, my queen," he said in a deep voice, before sinking back into the shadows. You see, Mako was of the Marl, a strange breed of creatures. Their fur bore a unique quality, in that it could shift in color to adapt to its surroundings. This made those creatures of the Marl exceptionally stealthy, capable of sinking into any shadow as if they were not there.

Gelida sank into her chair. Soon, her feast would come, and she would dine like royalty. It was good to be queen!

* * *

><p>A dark figure lumbered through the forest. Standing a few paws taller than a badger, he was clad in black plate mail from head to footpaw, disguising his form entirely. Over his back was slung a massive sword, of the same shade of black as his armor. He seemed to be some sort of knight, but no coat of arms or helmet plume denoted his affiliation.<p>

Now, in this region dwelt a group of tribal weasels, part of the regional mega-tribe known as the Flitchaye. And as the knight progressed through the forest, they began to grow restless. Who was this stranger? Why did he not fear the Flitchaye?

One such weasel, who took the name Ginko when he felt he wanted a name, stepped out of the shadows and stood before the knight. The immense figure stopped and looked down at him. Breathing in heavily, Ginko began the traditional call of the Flitchaye:

"Flitch-aye! Flitch-aye! Flitch-aye! Flitch"***whump***

The figure straightened again, removing his fist from the splatter that used to be Ginko. The other Flitchaye gasped, then began to yowl and scream as they charged the knight. Calmly, as if he had all the time in the world, he reached up, closing one paw around the handle of his great sword, and drew it into a low horizontal swing. The flat of the blade made contact with the first Flitchaye in his path, smashing him into the next and so on, and sent the entire group in front, about seven beasts in total, flying off into the bushes.

The rest stepped back, somewhat less confident; then the figure slammed his fist straight into the ground, causing a small tremor that knocked several of the weasels off their feet. Straightening once more, the figure began walking in his original path, breaking the skulls of those Flitchaye that could not move from underneath his feet in time. Those that survived his attack made no attempt to stop him; whomever this strange warrior was, he certainly had no reason to fear them.

* * *

><p><strong>Alright, let's get this over with. This is my first story, please rate and review, blah blah blah, something about grammar. I'd love to hear some criticism, but keep in mind that I have my own unique plan for this story, so don't attack the stranger bits (you'll know them when you see them). I'd like to remain lore-friendly, but keep in mind that the Dwemer were lore-friendly in TES, and they're still about as far from the setting as you could get.<strong>

**That being said, if you see anything that looks out of place otherwise, like a poorly-worded bit of dialogue, or an inconsistent character, let me know. I definitely made a mistake, and if it hasn't been found yet, that just means it's well hidden. However, I would ask that you point out such inconsistencies to me via PM, as I may have made them intentionally. I like providing hints to clue people in that they've been misled.**


	2. Ch 2: Cynical Skin Revisited

_Look to the right of me, okay, we've got Exhibit A; she, she ain't okay._

_And to the left, the left of me, we've got Exhibit B; oh, he's a beast to say the least, he's got his daddy's fury, fury, fury._

Some ways north of Redwall, along the western beach, a ship had docked. The _Sunder_, as it was called, was a slaver's galleon of the finest searat construction, hailing from across the western sea. After some manner of altercation, the _Sunder_ found itself unwelcome in Sampetra, and fled east to escape Gelida's wrath.

Now, as the sun began to rise, and mist set over the coastline, the self-appointed Rat Admiral Ripfang sat beside a fire, warming his bones. A vermin of minor renown, he had taken the name of a famous pirate captain from ancient stories; one who, as the story went, had tricked death and escaped his old age, such that he saw two badgers rule Salamandastron their entire lifespans. The Rat Admiral then tacked on said title to that name, because it sounded intimidating.

Unlike the Ripfang of legend, this Ripfang did not bear the eponymous ripping fang that the name was attributed to (not that it was missed; the fang would have curled into his skull and killed him if it were not kept properly trimmed). He was, however, quite strong for a rat, able to lift a creature roughly his size with minor effort.

Several tents were scattered in the area, for the most part gathered around other campfires. All manner of vermin rested on the beach, sitting on the sand or pieces of driftwood, or lying close to fires. Not a one was unarmed.

At the south end of the camp, close to the forest edge, stood the oarslaves' tent. The makeshift structure was noticeably much lower quality than the other tents in the area; the vermin cared little for what happened to the poor woodlanders. No campfire had been lit to warm them either. Inside, nearly two dozen creatures huddled together for warmth. Though the tent was at least sturdy enough to protect against the wind, it did little to block out the dense morning mist. Several creatures, weary from paddling after the escape from Sampetra.

Outside the tent, Welking the stoat stood guard. After an argument with Ripfang, he had found himself demoted and stuck with the undesirable task of making sure the prisoners didn't escape.

As Welking watched, a shadowy knight emerged from the forest and marched to the tent. A cloth strap crossed his chest, securing a box on his back. Welking raised his spear at the unidentifiable creature and growled, "Who goes there?"

"Irrelevant," the knight replied. "What is within this tent?"

"Slaves," Welking muttered, "not that it matters to-hey!"

The knight had stepped closer to the tent and grabbed the tarp with both hands. With one massive yank, he tossed the tent aside entirely, revealing the startled prisoners underneath. Welking growled, stepping forward and jabbing the knight with his spear-

-and found himself flying across the camp, propelled by a tremendous backhand blow from his adversary. His last scream alerted the camp to the danger at hand, before contact with the ground left him, shall we say, somewhat beyond the reach of medicine.

Ripfang snarled. Who would dare attack him, especially so early in the morning? He squinted down the beach, and spotted the knight. A badger? Yes, probably a badger. Badgers were known to roam this part of the country, or so he had been told. He picked up his sword and yowled, "Rip that beast apart!"

The knight turned his back to the prisoners, surveying the situation. With an air of finality, he reached for his sword and drew it. Then, he put the sword to his chest and sliced the cloth strap in half. The box fell to the ground and broke open, spilling all manner of swords to the ground.

A muscular otter, Ranga by name, was the first to react. Picking up a claymore from the pile, he rallied the rest of the slaves. "Get to the forest; we'll hold them off!" Five more followed his example, grabbing weapons and forming a defensive line between the slaves and the vermin crew. "Eulalia!" Ranga shouted, evoking the time-honored battle cry of Salamandastron. As he finished the cry, the vermin met the defensive line, and the battle started in earnest.

Immediately, the dark knight set to it, swinging the flat of his blade at the first line of vermin, and for a moment several vermin found themselves actually outpacing the slaves. Granted, they weren't touching the ground, and the sudden deceleration at the end of their short flights killed them, but hey, it's the thought that counts. One of the defenders, a bankvole, ducked and stabbed upward, catching a ferret between the ribs. Ranga stepped forward, slicing down, and severed a rat into two-figure percentages of himself. As the first woodlanders reached the forest edge, the defensive line slowly shifted position, blocking the vermin from getting around them and into the woods.

The knight checked behind him, in the form of a clockwise full-circle swing, and found that most of the prisoners had now escaped. "Retreat," he said, his voice almost apathetic in its calmness. Reluctantly, the defensive line broke, and followed the last of the prisoners into the forest. With one last swing to clear those vermin in front of him, the knight sheathed his sword. "_Adios_," he said, then he turned and sprinted away after the retreat.

Ripfang yelled in rage. How dare that knight steal his property? It was unacceptable!

"Should we follow them?" asked a fox with a rather ugly gash on his muzzle.

Ripfang ground his teeth and stomped the ground, incoherent with rage. After some time, he calmed enough to talk. "No," he growled. "Right now, we need to know how many we lost. We'll spend tonight, maybe tomorrow, to patch up, then we'll give 'em hell."

* * *

><p>"Redwallers. It's those Redwallers, it has to be those blasted Redwallers," Ripfang muttered, stomping around within his rather spacious command tent. You see, while he was fairly good at tactics, Ripfang was not the sharpest knife in the drawer. Despite the fact that this shore was within Salamandastron's protection, and despite the fact that Ranga actually uttered Salamandastron's famous battle cry during the battle, it had not occurred to Ripfang that Salamandastron may have been involved.<p>

No, it had to be Redwall, the infamous home of the goodbeasts. Though, as we will soon find out, Redwall was not actually responsible, nor was Salamandastron.

A fox opened the flap of the tent and peered inside. "Sir," he said, "we have a body count. We lost eighteen beasts this morning, and we found one mouse dead."

"Eighteen!?" Ripfang roared. "Those thrice-damned Redwallers!" He swiped a hand across the chart table, knocking the lantern thereupon to the floor. Ignoring the fire it started, and the fact that his tent was caught aflame, he stomped outside, shoving the fox aside as he did so. The poor vermin fell into the fire, singing his fur badly. With a scream he leapt up and dashed to the ocean to try to put it out.

"Soon, Redwall." Ripfang clenched his paw into a fist, tightening so much that he drew blood. "Soon, I will have my revenge."

* * *

><p>Friar Raspal laughed. What a beautiful pie he had created! Carefully, he removed the spiced apple masterpiece from the oven, examining the pristine crust as he did so. Yes, this would make a fine pie for Nameday.<p>

Spring was nearing its end, and Abbess Peony had set the date for a Nameday that day. Already, the Abbey was in full swing, preparing for the great feast. Tables were set up in the orchard, sheltered under the boughs of the great apple tree that dominated the area. Beasts ran to and fro, pushing out great trolleys of food, carrying baskets of dinnerware or linen tablecloths, and fetching bouquets of beautiful flowers for decoration.

Abbess Peony walked along the length of the table, adjusting forks and knives and repositioning plates. Uniformity in decoration was somewhat of a hobby of hers, and one the rest of the abbey was glad to allow her. It certainly didn't interfere with day-to-day life to be neat, after all.

A hare appeared at her side. "Ah, hello, Tyrel," she said.

Tyrel simply noded and smiled. He had been rendered mute some time before, following a small skirmish with vermin. Back in those days, he was a member of the Long Patrol, the group of perilous hares that patrolled the area and defended innocent beasts from the likes of vermin. After his injury, he retired from the service, and settled down within Redwall. He was still quite young, about thirty seasons or so, but his injury had given him much time to think, and graced him with wisdom beyond his years. It also graced him with a nasty scar on his neck, but let's not bother with details like that.

Abbess Peony sighed. "Isn't it wonderful? Summer is almost here, can't you just feel it in the air?"

Tyrel nodded, then made a few signs with his hands: "You-pick-name-season?"

"No, not yet. This spring has been quite uneventful. I suppose I shall just have to call it the Spring of Very Little Happenings, eh?" She laughed melodiously, a beautiful sound to hear. Tyrel laughed too, but without the aid of his vocal chords, it sounded more like several rapid exhalations.

As usual, far more place settings had been prepared than were strictly necessary. This was fortunate, as at that moment a great knocking sounded at the gate. Brother Fordel, the gatekeeper, came running over from the gatehouse. "Abbess," he panted, "there are several woodlanders at the gate, seeking entrance. They look like they haven't eaten well in quite some time."

"Well, let them in," Peony replied. "There are plenty of seats for them at the feast."

Fordel nodded and ran back to the gatehouse. Abbess Peony followed, taking her time. Presently, the gate began to swing open, and Peony found herself facing a sorry-looking group of beasts.

They looked like they had been through hell and back; most were severely emaciated, practically skin and bones, and several nursed bruises and whip scars. Behind them, like some sort of sentinel, a black-armored knight stood at attention. She could not work out what species he was, though his height seemed roughly equal to that of a badger. In one gauntlet, he held a bundle of swords by the blades; as if noticing Peony's concern, he quickly tossed these aside. "Greetings, milady," he said. His voice resonated through his armor, echoing slightly. "We have traveled for some ways, fleeing a group of pirates. We seek shelter and food."

Abbess Peony smiled. "But of course. Come in, come in. You're just in time; we've prepared a feast to mark the end of the season."

The former slaves cheered, and rushed forward to join the festivities. The knight took his time to enter, though; he did not speak as he looked around at the abbey grounds. "Enjoying the view?" asked Peony.

The knight nodded. "A fine home, indeed."

"I must ask, where did all these beasts come from?" she inquired.

The knight delayed before responding. "A ways north, along the beach, there was a pirate encampment. These beasts were slaves to those creatures."

"I assume you were the one to save them?"

"Only my civic duty. Nobeast deserves to be a slave."

"Indeed." Abbess Peony smiled. "By the way, I didn't catch your name."

"Charlemagne, milady."

* * *

><p>"Ladies and gentlebeasts," the Abbess began, "it is my pleasure to welcome you to the Feast of Nameday. After much deliberation, I have chosen to name this season the Spring of the Black Knight, after our season's hero Charlemagne!"<p>

The table erupted with cheers. Charlemagne merely nodded by way of acknowledgment. "Would you like to say a few words?" the Abbess asked.

"No, madam."

Peony smiled. "Very well then. Let us say grace!" She bowed her head and spread her arms wide.

"Fur and whisker, tooth and claw,

All who enter by our door.

Nuts and herbs, leaves and fruits,

Berries, tubers, plants and roots,

Silver fish whose life we take

Only for a meal to make."

An "Amen" sounded across the orchard, and beasts began to serve themselves. Charlemagne had found himself seated between Ranga and Brenna, the Badger Mother of Redwall. After swallowing a bite of deeper'n'ever pie, Brenna asked, "So, what was the fight with the pirates like?"

Charlemagne stared at his untouched plate. He hadn't bothered to remove his armor, having explained that he felt more comfortable with it on. "Well, it wasn't really that exciting."

Ranga guffawed. "No need to be modest, friend! I tell ya, this beast is amazing! Oh, he came marching inta the camp, and he pulled up our tent and smacked the guards away like it was nothing! He'd swing his sword right-"

"There was only one guard," Charlemagne interrupted.

"Shaddap, Charle, I'm making ya sound cooler. Anyway, he swings his sword right, an' there's vermin in the trees, and he swings his sword left, and there's vermin in the seas! I tell ya, he's a walking death sentence to vermin!"

Brenna nodded. "It must have been quite a sight to behold."

"Yeah, an' they had it comin' too," Ranga said enthusiastically. "Filthy pirates ran us ragged, makin' us row the ship, an' clean the sides, an' whatever else they didn' wanna do themselves. I jus' wish we'd've finished them off; coulda saved a whole bunch more goodbeasts from 'em."

Brenna raised an eyebrow questioningly. "You mean you didn't do away with them?"

"Nope. Charle called a retreat as soon as the pris'ners were clear. Dunno why, either; you know what they say, only good vermin's a dead vermin-"

Charlemagne stood up abruptly, shaking the table as he did so. The noise of the feast died down, as beasts turned to look at him. "I have overstayed my welcome," he announced, as he stepped away from the bench, his plate still empty and untouched. He turned and marched toward the gate.

Abbess Peony ran after him. "Wait!" she called. "Why are you leaving?"

Charlemagne stopped and turned to face her. "It has become apparent to me that I do not belong here. If you have any further need of me, I will be at my home to the southeast. Otherwise, I bid you a fine feast, but I must take my leave." He turned once more and continued out the gate. The rest of the gathered beasts stared after him in shocked silence.

Abbess Peony returned to the table, disguising her shock under a straight face. "Well you heard him," she said, somewhat reluctantly. "Charlemagne may not wish to be here, but let us not stop the feast on his account." She gestured with one hand to the tables, as if willing the feast to continue. Slowly, it did, but most beasts seemed distracted. Who was Charlemagne, really? What kind of beast would hide under all that armor? What did he even look like? The conversation, for a time, focused on questions like these, as the feast continued into the evening.

* * *

><p><strong>The title for this chapter took me a while, as I couldn't find anything that suited the content. I finally had to take a song and modify the lyrics, hence the "Revisited" suffix. I'll try to have more relevant selections in the future, that don't require tweaking.<strong>

**Anyway, in this chapter we meet Villain 2, and learn Hero 1's name. There will probably be more; I am a huge fan of the "Loads and Loads of Characters" trope, and I'm prone to characterizing random characters at the slightest impulse. For instance, Chapter 3 introduces Hero 2, who was created almost in his entirety while I was writing Chapter 3.**

**Also, Charle seems to be hiding something. Wonder what that could be?**

**Pre-post Edit: I already have views? Jiik do kiindah, the Internet is fast!**


	3. Ch 3: Kick Him When He's Down

_Here alone I'll put up and fight; beat me all the way, I'll take it all night._

_Hey, don't worry, I'll get along home alright._

Mako sat in silence, eyes set on the east horizon. The iceberg he now rode, possessed of Gelida's cold power, would carry him exactly where he wished to go; all he had to do was will it so. Right now, it floated along at a steady clip, sped along its way by an otherworldly force.

Presently, he came within sight of land. Choosing a stretch of coastline that he felt appropriate, next to a strangely shaped rock, he directed the iceberg with a thought and told it to beach itself there.

As he came closer, he realized that the curious rock was, in fact, not a rock, but a galleon of searat design. He berated himself for his previous analysis, having thought the masts were simply strange trees behind the rock.

Closer still, he realized something else: he _recognized_ the ship. The _Sunder_, a vessel involved in a rather poorly executed raid on the Ice Queen, now lay beached on the coast. Slightly to the left, Mako could see several beasts encamped on the shore. He willed the iceberg to beach near them instead.

* * *

><p>A week after he said they'd leave, Ripfang was still fuming in his spare tent. He'd never much been the kind for deadlines, and his crew had taken far longer to mend than he'd anticipated.<p>

A rather hair-deprived fox dipped his head in again. The audience may remember this unlucky vulpine, by the name of Smack, from his unfortunate incident a few days prior. "Sir," he said with a gulp, "there's an iceberg approaching the coast."

Ripfang looked up, fear in his eyes. "Don't let them know I'm here! Tell them I died in the battle!"

"Yes sir!" Smack bowed quickly, then ducked back out of the tent. The iceberg was now a mere fifty meters or so from shore, and closing the distance fast. Smack reluctantly walked to the shoreline, eyes practically vibrating in his skull. The last time he'd seen any of Gelida's iceberg ships, he was with the crew running for their lives. The icebergs couldn't carry many beasts, but they were plenty fast, and the beasts chosen to command them were frequently quite deadly in their own rights. Woe betide the beast that opposed Gelida on the water, for her icebergs would be their undoing!

It was at this moment that he realized that he was standing in the water, and the iceberg was not slowing down very quickly. In a moment of panic, he suddenly found himself unsure whether to jump left or right; as a result, he stayed frozen in place. The iceberg came careening into shore, knocking him between the eyes and sending him flying inland. He lay, stunned to the edge of consciousness, on the beach, watching as a lone figure descended from the iceberg.

The figure walked inland, stopping to loom over Smack. With a surge of fright, he recognized the beast: Mako, a Marl-badger and the Queen's second-in-command! "Well, well, what happened here?" he asked, looking around before setting his gaze on the stunned fox at his feet.

"Black… knight… big…" Smack stuttered, still dazed.

Mako nodded; the description sounded familiar, but he could not place it. "Where is Ripfang?"

"Rat… Admir… al… dead… ugh." Smack finally slipped from consciousness. He would wake some time later, but his head was too beat-up to stay alert now.

Mako looked around and, spotting Ripfang's secondary tent, chuckled inwardly. Smack's last conscious words were clearly untrue; the Rat Admiral would not pull out that tent unless he needed to, and he wouldn't need to if he were actually dead. Did he not know that Gelida was simply having fun with him? Did he not understand that, if she had wanted him dead, the sea itself would freeze around him?

Ah, no matter. He had a mission to get to. Letting his fur shift, he dropped from sight and continued inland.

* * *

><p>The festivities were already two days past when he arrived. Shifting his fur to a more recognizable black-with-white pattern, he stepped out of the shadows and onto the road. Redwall's massive walls stood before him, built to keep out any creature that would dare attack, but they did little to impress him. He'd seen far more imposing walls created with a wave of his mistress's hand.<p>

Approaching the gates, he shouted to any beast that could hear, "Ho there!"

Ranga the otter peered over the wall. "Greetings, badger!" he shouted back. "What business brings ya here?"

"My mistress has requested the presence of one of Redwall's famed cooks!"

"Yer mistress, eh? Tell me, where does she want our cook?"

"The Isle-" Mako cleared his throat. Something about yelling had thrown his voice into puberty for a second. "The Isle of Sampetra!"

"Och, I've heard some nasty tales 'bout that place. I don' think the Abbess will approve of anybeast goin' there!"

Mako furrowed his brow. "Very well. Would you please speak with her about it? I will return in a few days' time for your answer!"

"Aye, badger!" Ranga disappeared for a second, then popped back up. "What be yer name, so I can tell her who's askin'?"

Mako thought for a second, then replied, "Stefan!"

Ranga laughed. "That's a right fancy name, friend! Any chance yer related to that Charle guy that came by here?"

"Charle?"

"Yeah! Big, black-armored guy, didn't talk much. Said his name was Charlemagne!"

Charlemagne. Now that name was memorable; it worried Mako, though he did not show it. "That sounds familiar; who knows, I might have met him once! In any case, I await your answer; until next we meet!" Mako turned away. He had urgent news to deliver to Gelida now.

Ranga, not keyed off to Mako's internal monologue, waved as the badger plodded away. "Right back at ya; 'till next we meet!"

* * *

><p>Finally, after more than a week, Ripfang left his tent, sword in hand. "Are we ready?" he shouted. A chorus of roars, and a moan from Smack, were the reply. Raising his wickedly spiked cutlass, he roared, "Then we march on Redwall! Attack!"<p>

As one, the horde of pirates marched into the forest. All tents were left behind, and any possession that would not help the immediate battle stayed on the beach.

Smack, meanwhile, was dreaming. He dreamt he stood within an immense darkness. His body was perfectly illuminated, but the ground immediately beneath his feet was nothing more than a mass of shadow.

Slowly, he walked forward into the darkness. Presently, he came to a ladder. The ladder appeared to be made out of old wood, and bore many twisted knots. The rungs were misshapen, tapering slightly toward one side and hideously un-parallel. He looked behind him, but saw nothing but blackness.

Shrugging, he set his hands on the rungs of the ladder. They were immensely cold to the touch, and slightly damp. Ignoring how strange they felt, he began to haul himself upward. The ladder cut off after a few meters; he felt around at the top and found that the ground ahead was solid. Pulling himself to his feet, he looked around.

A mouse stood before him, clothed in a brown habit. The hood had been pulled up over his head, disguising his features. A sword and shield lay on the ground before him, illuminated by some ethereal light.

The sword was finely crafted, with a wide crossbar and a perfectly straight blade. Set into the pommel was a brilliant red stone. The shield was well made too; a set of rivets adorned the outer ring of the circular surface, and an 'M' had been etched into the center.

The mouse gestured to the two tools, then spoke:

My friend, I bid thee, take your pick;

These tools will serve you well.

But you may carry only one

When you encounter Hell.

Misfortune claws and scars your soul,

But death has turned away;

But pass my test and you will find

A champion you'll be.

Within the land of Sampetra,

You shall begin your quest.

My friend, seek out the pinnacle

That's first north-east, then west.

My friend, find the red crystal fine,

That holds a captured soul;

And with your might the surface break,

Its owner to make whole.

As the rhyme finished, Smack groaned inwardly. The last thing he needed was a quest, much less one on Sampetra. But as he considered this, the mouse looked him in the eye and pulled back his hood. In his golden eyes shone a fiery confidence, and his face was that of a warrior born. Could this be Martin, the legendary Warrior of Redwall? Smack had heard tales of him in the taverns of Sampetra; it was said that he still lingered around the Abbey, and chose champions to fend off great threats to the land.

Wait, could that mean…! Smack stumbled backward, shocked. Was he really a champion of Redwall? There'd never been a fox champion, not in any of the tales he'd heard of Redwall!

He looked down, and suddenly recognized the sword. Martin's sword! Legends had it that the blade was crafted from a falling star, tempered to perfection by a badger lord. Its strange properties meant that it never lost its fine edge, and it could slice through anything short of iron, and sometimes that as well!

"Wait," he said, remembering the rhyme, "I get to take one of these? For the quest, I mean?"

Martin nodded, smiling.

"Can I take both?"

Martin shook his head.

Smack looked down, putting a hand to his chin. He would have to think carefully about this. The sword was a mark of status, and a fine weapon for anybeast. Having it by his side would label him as a mighty warrior.

The shield on the other hand… Smack had a history of injuries and all-around bad luck. Such a fine shield would be invaluable to a klutz like him, even if he didn't immediately recognize it. Besides, if someone were to recognize Martin's sword, Smack would probably find himself one blade deficit. With his luck, such a theft was practically guaranteed.

He bent down and picked up the shield. "Okay, I choose this."

Martin nodded. Then, pulling his hood over his head again, he faded from sight, as did the sword. Smack found himself once more standing in a complete void. The shield began to grow hot within his hands, and the ground began to freeze. He lifted a foot to step forward, and was suddenly seized by nausea. Fainting, he fell forward, and he was out cold when his muzzle hit the ground and gave him a nosebleed.

* * *

><p>Mako was greeted with a curious sight when he returned to his iceberg. The fox whom he had spoken with upon arriving at the beach was now laying on the icy surface of his vessel, an ash-covered shield under him. He appeared to be bleeding from somewhere around his face, as the blood had seeped out and frozen his muzzle to the deck. There also appeared to be a small trickle of vomit frozen in with the blood<p>

Mako chuckled. The poor fox was probably dead, judging by his numerous injuries. As he thought this, though, he noticed a faint rise and fall of the fox's lower back; he was still breathing. It mattered little; there was no hardship in being waylaid at Sampetra, at least for a pirate like the fox appeared to be. He could stay onboard for now.

Taking his seat at the bow of the iceberg, Mako willed it back out to sea. He had news to deliver to Gelida.

* * *

><p><strong>And this is the end of my pre-written chapters. With college looming on the horizon, I don't know how often I'll be updating this from here on out. Nevertheless, stay posted, and let me know if I forget for more than a month; I'd hate to do the same thing I'm so bothered by myself.<strong>

**This chapter's lyrical sample might be a bit of a stretch for this early in Smack's story, but I felt that he'd already demonstrated enough misfortune for it to be appropriate. Smack is shaping up to be this story's Butt Monkey, and I'm not sure if he'll take the route of The Chew Toy or The Woobie yet.**

**Finally, I'd like to reiterate what I said in Ch1. If you have any criticisms about the form of the story or the grammar, feel free to leave a review. However, if you have a point to make about something I got wrong with the lore established by Jacques himself, send me a PM instead; there may just be a reason behind it.**


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